


Ticking Past

by Cloudnine101



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Castiel is a Tease, Dean Has Self-Worth Issues, DestiAww, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, Kissing, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Marriage Proposal, No Sex, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-22
Updated: 2015-03-22
Packaged: 2018-03-19 03:34:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3594828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cloudnine101/pseuds/Cloudnine101
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Dean Winchester is thirty six years old, and he's running out of time.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ticking Past

Dean Winchester is thirty six years old, and he's running out of time. It's not because of a witch's curse, or a demon's deal, or - or anything supernatural, really. Sam would say it was supernatural, and magical, and all that; but it just ain't. It's life. It's not world-shaking, or mountain-toppling, or angel-killing - then again, it might just be angel-killing, if he gets this wrong.

Smoothing down his shirt, he stares into the mirror. Everything's good - as good as it can be. The tux jacket feels too tight, straining against his skin; Dean rolls his shoulders, blowing out from between his teeth. Apparently, Cas likes him in it - says he looks 'elegant', as if Dean would know much about that. He tries for a smile, and ends up grimacing. All in all, he's normal - and Cas, apparently, likes normal. Or so he claims.

The thing is, if Dean was Castiel - which he isn't, obviously - he wouldn't like normal. He'd want someone interesting, and fascinating, and sparkling; somebody who glows, and lights up rooms with a smile, and makes stars fall with a laugh; somebody who actually suits tuxedos, and when he's just rolled out of bed in the morning, and all the times in-between. He'd want someone young, and pretty - not old, and grizzled, with too many scars to count, and too much blood on his hands to remember.

Cas deserves someone special - not someone like Dean Winchester. Fortunately, he doesn't seem to have realised that yet - and before he can spot the glaring mistake, Dean's gonna make his move. He can't just sit around any longer. He's seen the states Cas gets, when they're walking down the street. He can't sit in another bar, and watch Cas get hit on by people who don't need him - people who he doesn't belong to. He _can't_.

Dean's had the ring in his pocket for weeks. It hasn't been the same pocket, of course; he's swapped it from coat to coat, trying to do something. It's not as though he's nervous. Cas wants him - he says so all the time, when they're in the back of the Impala, flushed and sweaty and heated. I want you. It's never got much further than that, really. Cas has had to fly off - and Dean's cool with that. He gets why he has to wait - he just doesn't like it.

But tonight, things will be different. If Cas is _his_ , he'll have to stick around, right? That's how loads of couples roll. They live in the same house, and share the same breakfast cereal, and lie in the same bed, bodies pressed together.

Dean can have that. They'll hold onto one another, and take long walks on tarmac roads; and Dean'll take him out dancing, and dining, just because he can; and afterwards, Cas will look up at him, with those big blue eyes, all pink-cheeked, and say - say - something, but it'll be something great.

"Come on, Winchester," he says. "You can do this. You can-" 

"Do what?"

Dean almost jumps out of his shoes. Spinning around, he faces the doorway, heart seemingly lodged in his throat. "Jeez, Cas! Learn to knock!"

"I am sorry, Dean." The man takes a step closer, trenchcoat pooling around him. Dean can't help but follow the line of it; the smooth cut, as it falls around his thighs, casting shadows on his shins. "You're wearing the suit."

"Yeah," Dean says, chuckling slightly, "I, err - I thought I'd give it a spin. What do you think?" Holding up his arms, he displays it. The box scrapes against his side; Dean resits the urge to flinch. Castiel's face is perfectly, exquisitely blank. Dean swallows, against the lump in his chest.

"You must stop this." The words are spoken lowly. Dean's stomach plummets through his shoes, even as his skin tingles. Castiel moves ever closer; crossing the space in strong, fluid steps. If there was a little more space between them, the room might not be so warm. Those eyes burn - and then Castiel's right in front of him, mere inches away. Dean's arms drop to his sides.

"Stop what?" he croaks out, tongue swollen improbably. Castiel's breath is scalding, against his flesh - Dean tilts his head to the side, eyelids fluttering slightly - and his head's pounding, and his ears are ringing, and this is it. This is the moment where Cas pushes him away, and he has to go. Sam would want to stay in the Bunker - he'll have to find Cas another house. Maybe he's already got one. Maybe he never wanted to stay. Maybe Dean asked too much - pushed too hard. Maybe those stolen kisses meant nothing at all. Maybe-

"You know what." In the dim light, the lines on Castiel's skin are visible. Around his eyes, faint crow's feet are forming; laughter lines tug and stretch, creating tiny indents. Dean wants to press his lips against them; push Castiel up against a wall, and and show him whatever he wants to see. "You know what you've done. You know how you've lied."

"Lied?" Dean's voice squeaks, ever so slightly; when he speaks again, he tries his level best to lower it - to get himself under control, because he won't let this happen. "I haven't lied. What are you talking about?"

Castiel gazes at him; his eyes narrow. "You don't think you're handsome. You told me so." The words sink in - Dean's body sags. He releases a breath. He hadn't been sure he'd been holding one.

"Is that it? 'Cause you had me worried, for a second there." Dean runs a hand through his hair, upsetting it entirely. "What? What's with the pouting?" 

"You're impossible," Cas breathes - and then suddenly, there's a hand on his chest. The fingertip leave marks, on the silk. Dean stares down at them, blankly.

"Cas?"

"Don't speak." The pressure increases - slowly, Dean begins to move backwards. Cas steps with him, in sync. Dean can't look away from him; darkness spills over his features, highlighting the small hollows in his cheeks. There's a wall, against his back - but it isn't a wall, and it moves slightly, on its stand. Glancing behind him, Dean sees his own reflection, stained scarlet. Behind him, Cas's mouth is drawn downwards.

Fingers bunch, in his shirt - and Dean turns his head, only to be met by a clash of teeth. Grinning, he grips onto Castiel's elbows, drawing him in. They've done this dance before, and by now, Dean knows the steps - or, at least, he thinks he does. He isn't expecting, however, for Castiel to step back, planting his palms into Dean's abdomen, and pushing. Hard.

"Hey!" Dean stumbles further, sliding against the glass. His legs buckle, slightly; he draws in a breath, scowling. "What was that for?"

"Tell me that you're beautiful."

Dean blinks. "What?"

Cas sighs; it's long, and drawn out. "Dean, Dean, Dean. What am I going to do with you?"

"Cas-" But Dean doesn't get any further, because Cas is kissing him again - fast and furiously, tongue creeping forward to brush Dean's own. "Cas, Cas, Cas-"

"Tell me that you're beautiful," Castiel says, against his mouth. "Tell me, and I'll let you speak." Dean opens his mouth - and before he can get a word out, there's heat everywhere, inside his jacket, against his shirt - and all he wants is more, and more, and more, until he can't see and can't feel and can't think - and if Cas is gonna leave, he's gonna make it damn well worth Dean's while.

Before him, Castiel goes rigid. He simply stops moving, entirely; hackles rising, body taut, string like a bow - and he's withdrawing, sucking all of the energy away with him, leaving Dean powerless. Dean takes a breath - looks downwards.

The angel Castiel is holding a small, black box.

Dean loses the capacity to breathe.

"What is this?" Castiel speaks quietly. Dean stares at it - and he can't do anything, can't move. He's sweating. That isn't attractive - and he's hurt so many, done so much wrong, and this is just another mess-up to add to the impossibly long list. Dean Winchester has killed, and burnt, and stabbed - and every day, he has to live with that.

Castiel made it bearable. Sam helped, of course; holding his hand, and guiding him through. Keeping him same, even when his arm burns, in the place where the Mark used to be. Without Sam, he wouldn't have made it through - but without Cas, he'd have died long, long before that. He'd have been gone from the start.

Castiel makes it bearable - and now he's driven him away. There's no way he can gloss this over. Cas may be a little out there, but he's not that clueless. He knows what this means. He must know.

"It's...it's a ring." Dean fingers encircle his forearm. His pulse thunders. "It means-"

"I know what it means."

Dean falls silent, clamping his lips together. He can feel Cas's eyes on him; feel the scrutiny, the curiosity. The horror. "Well?" Dean spits, half-gagging, half-drowning. "Will you?"

"Will I what?" Castiel's knuckles are white, now. Dean doesn't know what to make of that. He doesn't know what to make of anything. All he knows is that he's a bad man - and he's done bad things - and, at last, it's caught up with him. This is it.

"Will you...will..." Dean breathes in; breathes out. "Will you...stay, for a while?"

Slowly, he raises his line of vision - because that's what Winchesters do. They hold on, even when everything else is falling apart. He'll have to bin the tuxedo. He'll have to go hunting, more often. He'll have to drag Sam with him. The jerk won't be happy, but he'll live - even if Dean won't. He's got whiskey, in the cupboard. He can pour himself a glass. Or two. Or three.

Castiel is watching him, as Dean gathers his courage - as he frames the words he cannot say, and they dangle on the tips of his lips, at the corners of his sight.

The man - the angel - is smiling.


End file.
